I Can't Stop The Rain
by Chibi StarLyte
Summary: The detective is horrified when it finally hits him just how dependent he's become on John, and it destroys him to think of the possibility that he'll once again have to stand on his own two feet. Problem is, Sherlock isn't sure he remembers how.


This fic has been agony to write. Seriously. I started writing it when I was in a terrible mood and felt like torturing my favourite fictional characters. And 8000+ words later, here is the most angst-ridden thing I have ever written. I apologize if Sherlock is way OOC, but given the circumstances...I guess it might be okay? I kind of wanted to explore Sherlock's dependency on John in this fic. I hope I've done an okay job with it.

Anywho, enjoy, I guess.

Many super-awesome thanks to Akiame9 for being my wonderful, amazing beta!

Also, this hasn't been Brit-picked, so if any of you notice some vocabulary/syntax things in the dialogue that sound too Americanized, feel free to let me know. In addition to that, please also bring it to my attention if you find typos! Sometimes even two sets of eyes can miss things in a read-through.

**Disclaimer****:** I don't own anything. Poopoo.

.

Sherlock isn't one to cry. Never had been. Which is why the salty liquid prickling the corners of his eyes is so foreign a sensation, even if he barely notices it. Eyes that match the stormy sky glaze over with horror and panic as the gunshot echoes through the rain and fog. There's shuffling and metallic clangs of feet on fire escapes, then silence save for the pounding of raindrops. He pivots on his feet, the soles of his dress shoes slipping on the wet concrete. He stumbles as he backtracks to where a limp, still body is lying on the ground.

Where John is lying on the ground.

Sherlock is on his knees in an instant, his hands all over the fallen doctor. There's so much blood—_so much blood_—that he doesn't know, _can't find_ where the bullet went through. All he sees is red red _red_. It's everywhere. It's a colour that Sherlock never thought suited John very well, especially right now. He doesn't know when they started to, but his hands are shaking, visibly so, and he's helpless to control the violent tremors. He removes his dark leather gloves in a frantic haste and presses his fingers to John's neck in search of a pulse. It's there, but only just.

Time passes, though of the exact measure of minutes Sherlock isn't sure. Sirens blare in the background, but the detective hears none of it. He doesn't register when Lestrade yanks him to his feet to pull him to the cop car. He doesn't react when the medical technicians move John onto a gurney and cart him to the ambulance. The quakes travel from his hands and course through his entire body, and there's a weight on his shoulders as the detective inspector tries to steady his friend enough so he can stand on his own two feet.

"John…"

He's vaguely aware of the pavement coming in contact with his knees once again, rain-diluted blood staining and soaking into the dark fabric of his trousers. Lestrade's calling his name, but Sherlock doesn't even know what his name is anymore. There's only one name he knows, and it's the name that keeps involuntarily rolling off his lips in a quiet, desperate mantra.

"_John…"_

Everything _hurts_. His eyes sting, his cheeks are on fire. Hot tears cascade down his face in a stark contrast to the freezing rain. His entire chest is constricted by thick vines of dread and he can't breathe. The only noises he emits are choking gasps as he tries to gulp in air, tries to swallow back sobs he never thought himself capable of making. Lestrade calls his name again, but he doesn't respond.

"_John…!"_

"Sherlock, you need to get up," Lestrade says with urgency, hooking his arms beneath Sherlock's armpits to hoist the man up. He does this with great difficulty—Sherlock is unmoving, dead weight in his clutches. He doesn't even try to right himself, doesn't bother to plant his feet on the ground. Is there even a ground? No, there can't be. Not when Sherlock is tumbling down, stuck in free fall, plummeting at terminal velocity into a bottomless abyss.

_"John!"_

He watches as the paramedics lift John into their emergency vehicle. His heart clenches when they close the doors and drive off, taking John away.

_Taking John away._

"_JOHN!"_

"Sherlock!" the detective inspector yells, still unable to break Sherlock out of his near-catatonia. "Damn it! Donovan, help me get him to the car!"

.

By the time they reach the hospital, Sherlock is still swirling about in a haze, suspended in a hurricane of confusion and denial. No. This isn't_ real_. John is invincible. John _can't_ get hurt. He's _not_ in operation, _not_ struggling for his life, _not_ injured and dying and _oh God it's all his fault_. Sherlock draws his knees close to his chest, his feet barely able to stay on the chair. This. Isn't. _Happening_.

Through his clouded thoughts, he's so hyperaware of his surroundings that it drives him completely bonkers. Every time the child in the corner starts crying, it rattles Sherlock more than it should. His heart stills every time a nurse emerges from the double doors leading from the waiting room to the emergency wing. Every single little sound, every single hint of movement, every single thought passing through the minds of every single soul in the waiting room sends him into a tailspin of anxiety. He wants to see John. He wants his fears and his theories and his ideas to be proven wrong, for once in his life. He wants Lestrade to get off his phone and stop talking about Sherlock's weird behavior and _shut the fuck up_ _just stop saying those awful things John is not dying _but he can't even find the words to say. He wants to tune the detective inspector out, but his heightened auditory sense will not allow such a mercy.

Sherlock doesn't know why he's so worried—John's been through worse. He'd already been shot once, when he was in Afghanistan, and he survived _that_. This time would be no different. _Right?_

He sinks deeper into his chair. It hurts. It hurts _so badly_. The detective pulls his lanky form into an even tighter ball, collapsing in on himself. Guilt. Sorrow. Things Sherlock thought he'd never feel again are now coming back full-force, chaining his soul in heavy irons and dragging him down into the raging depths of despair where he is left to writhe in his own destructive thoughts. Left to drown in his rapidly declining self-worth and murky leagues of loathing, pure and unbridled. If only he hadn't been so careless. If only he had paid closer attention, been more aware. The irony leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He here is, the world's only consulting detective, most observant human being he knows of, and yet he had overlooked the one detail that mattered. If only, _if only_, he had looked out for John...

The way John always looked out for him.

The hours tick by. Sherlock feels like it's been centuries. Hundreds of years waiting in agony for the final verdict. Is John okay? Did the operation go well? Is he in recovery? _What in the world is even going on?_ Sherlock dares to take a look around the waiting room. He, Lestrade, and Donovan are the only ones there, and it's well past midnight. The two police-affiliated personnel are standing over by the reception counter, speaking in hushed tones and glancing at him every now and again with strange looks on their faces. They both look exhausted. Grey eyes stare at them for an undistinguished amount of time, trying to deduce more, but Sherlock just can't bring himself to do it. He's too distracted. Too distracted by nothing.

At long last, a nurse pushes one of the double doors open and lets herself into the waiting room. In a shy, quiet voice, she says, "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

Sherlock's attention is instantly stolen by the new voice in the room and he practically throws himself off the chair, stumbling towards her on legs that had long gone numb from disuse. He uses Lestrade's shoulder as an anchor to hold himself upright, to which the silver-haired man doesn't object in the slightest.

"How is he?" Lestrade asks in a gravelly voice.

The nurse takes in a deep breath, which immediately raises red flags in every corner and crevice in Sherlock's brain. No. No, no, _no_. She's preparing to tell them something bad. Something terrible. Sherlock doesn't want terrible, can't handle terrible.

"We were able to remove the bullet, but he's still in critical condition. There's still a lot of internal bleeding around the wound, and we're trying to stop that and get his vitals—"

"_Where is he?"_

Everyone is alarmed by the sudden intrusion of Sherlock's voice. It's raspy, hoarse, and dripping with anger. Silence ensues, and Sherlock repeats his question with even more venom. _"Where. Is. He?"_

"Room 331, but—"

The doors to the hospital wing fly open as Sherlock bursts through them at breakneck speed, ignoring the nurse's shouts of, "Wait, sir, come back!" and, "You can't go in there!" He wants to see John. He _needs _to see John. Everything is a blur as he dashes through the bright white halls, the fluorescent lights glaring off the shiny floor and nearly blinding him. He can't tell if the footsteps echoing off the walls are his own, or those of the hospital employees giving chase. His legs carry him up several sets of stairs until he reaches the third floor, and he trips over himself when he shoves the door open and falls into the corridor. His slip-up doesn't deter him in the slightest, and he quickly locates the room the nurse has mentioned.

_John John John JOHN_.

He's barely able to get a glimpse of his flat mate past the door frame when two pairs of arms grab him from behind. He flails and thrashes and resists and tries to pull free, but they hold firm and painfully tight, dragging him away from his destination. _Away from John_.

And then Sherlock screams.

.

"You caused quite the upset at the hospital last night."

Sherlock is _so close_ to stabbing his brother in the eye with his violin bow, to _accidentally_ spilling a beaker of battery acid all over his smug face, and it takes every ounce of will power he has left to refrain from such violent actions. How dare Mycroft show up, unannounced, just to patronize him! Usually it would be a prime opportunity to annoy his older brother to no end, but surely Mycroft knows the gravity of recent events? Can't he see everything that is so irreversibly _wrong_ with this picture? Can't he see that his dear little brother is teetering on the edge of a psychotic meltdown and _Mycroft get the fuck out of John's chair before I end you_.

"Is that so?" Sherlock says, his tone several degrees below water's freezing point. He levels his gaze at his brother, who sits nonchalantly in _John's fucking chair_. If looks could kill, Sherlock would be a wanted criminal charged with the murder of the British government. He doesn't need reminding of his deplorable behavior, of his lack of control in the situation. He's already being denied visitation, and that alone is pushing him to the brink of insanity. If he has to deal with Mycroft for even three more seconds, he would not be held responsible for the lock on his self-restraint coming undone for a second time.

There is a tense, deadly silence before Mycroft's smooth tenor breaks right through it. "I've been able to arrange things for you at the hospital."

Sherlock can barely hide his shock at his brother's statement. He gives Mycroft a pointed look, urging him to continue.

"You are permitted to come and go as you please, on the condition that you do not bother any of the patients or employees. You are to alert someone on duty when you are coming and when you are leaving." Mycroft just stares right back at Sherlock, lazily twisting the curved handle of his wet umbrella between his fingers.

"But I can come and go at _any_ time I wish?" Sherlock asks, making sure he heard his brother correctly. Normally, hospital visiting hours are dreadfully short and at the most inconvenient times during the day. To allow a visitor at any time prior or after those few hours is unprecedented, and Sherlock has a hard time taking Mycroft's words as truth. He continues the icy staring contest that the two brothers are known for when in the other's presence.

The elder Holmes sighs, as if he's grown bored with their conversation already. "Yes, Sherlock. The conditions are in place because of your…_conduct_ last night, but I ensured that they allow you to visit at all hours." As loving as his gesture may seem to be to an outsider, Mycroft still comes off as cold as a snowman when he gives Sherlock the reassurance of his negotiations. His demeanor alone makes it difficult to believe that the deed was done for Sherlock's own benefit.

And of course, Sherlock wastes no time in voicing this concern, no matter how appreciative he actually feels that Mycroft has extended a helping hand, so to speak. "What are you getting out of it?" He narrows his eyes, brows furrowed in scrutiny.

"Why must you always assume I only do things for personal gain?" At this point, Mycroft sounds exasperated, if not slightly frustrated. Sherlock knows exactly how to push his buttons; then again, that just comes with the sibling territory, and Sherlock has no regrets exploiting this, especially when Mycroft is still seated comfortably in _John's chair._ Though that doesn't last for much longer, because Mycroft stretches his unbelievably long legs and stands. Clearly, he has more important things to worry about, being the British government and all. "At any rate, you may visit John whenever you'd like. Now, if you'll excuse me, dear brother, I have some pressing matters to attend to."

"Don't let the door hit you on your way out," Sherlock says, even though somewhere, deep down, _very deep down, _he really means, "Thank you." He hears Mycroft let out a soft, derisive snort as he descends the stairs. Once the slam of the door echoes through the flat, Sherlock is at the window, discreetly spying on his brother until he gets into the black car parked just outside. He waits a few moments until the vehicle is about halfway down the street before he flies across the room to grab his coat. He barely has his arms through the sleeves when he exits the flat in a flash, hailing the next taxi he lays eyes on. The only thing going through is mind is John, his thoughts racing almost as quickly as his mad dash out of 221b.

During the ride to the hospital that lasts much longer than it really should, Sherlock finds himself wishing that John were sitting next to him in the cab like always.

.

The light drizzle from earlier has picked up in its intensity over the last few hours. The downpour is almost deafening as the raindrops relentlessly pound against the window. Sherlock stands before it, just watching the world below, lost in thought. The sound of the rain is almost therapeutic to him, keeping him grounded and focused as he weeds though oodles of new information presented to him over the course of his visit today. Now that the initial shock of the incident has worn off since last night, he's able to logically map out every detail without the interference of emotion.

Though to say that it doesn't hurt him to see John lying unconscious in the hospital bed is a complete and utter lie, which is why Sherlock is in front of the window now. He can't bring himself to look at John, for he fears another break down would follow. And Sherlock Holmes _doesn't break down_. Last night was a fluke. A slip-up. Would never happen again.

He hopes not, anyway.

From what the doctor has told him, the bullet hit John in his thigh. Narrowly missed the femoral artery. They were able to operate and remove the bullet, but John was still suffering from a lot of internal bleeding that they couldn't fix. He hasn't so much as stirred since he'd been moved into recovery, a fact that worries Sherlock more than it should. The worry isn't evident on his face. No, his long and angular visage is the quintessence of calm, collected, and distant. Instead, the worry eats away at the lining of his stomach like an ulcer, roiling and burning in his abdomen.

And even though he has sworn off doing so, he finds himself abdicating his post at the window and coming to stand next to John's bed. Soft grey eyes stare down at the unconscious man tucked between the sheets, having a bit of difficulty recognizing him. This pale, sickly-looking patient isn't John. _Can't be_. Doesn't resemble him at all. John is strong and vivacious and perseverant and healthy and this frail body in the hospital bed can't be John because it's just _so not John_.

Sherlock pulls a chair up next to the bed and perches himself on the cold, hard plastic. His sharp, scrutinizing eyes watch John, gaze never wavering. He takes a silent oath that he will personally hunt down the man who had done this to John, and will take sick and twisted pleasure in killing him with his bare hands.

He doesn't move for several hours.

.

In the following weeks, Sherlock takes on a hefty case load in attempts to keep himself busy, keep himself distracted and stave off his inevitable self-destruction. The cases provide enough of a challenge, but he still feels empty, hollow. A shell of his former self. He misses that second pair of footsteps echoing behind him as he hunts criminals down through the back streets of London. He misses the declarations of amazement every time he makes apparently brilliant deductions. He misses knowing that whatever he does, wherever he goes, someone will always be there with him.

He misses John.

The next time he visits, Sherlock is sure to inform the man of this. Repeatedly. Desperately.

"Wake up, John."

"We have a case. Hurry up and get better. You're supposed to be blogging about it, remember?"

"John, _please_."

"_John_."

"John, you need to wake up."

"John…"

"I miss you. John, I _need_ you."

"Please wake up."

_I can't do this without you._

.

The consistent beeping of the heart monitor is the only sound in the otherwise quiet hospital room. Sherlock is seated in one of the guest chairs, the only one with a cushion, hunched forward and deep in thought. Neither his thoughts nor his eyes have left John in the four hours he's been here. It's utterly terrifying just watching the doctor in his comatose state—there's a small bit of hope, somewhere deep down in Sherlock's locked cellar of emotions, that John will wake. He's more than aware of the miniscule likelihood of that happening, though, and it_ hurts_. It hurts so much worse than Sherlock ever thought it would. The idea that John will never speak to him again, never smile at him in that knowing way that implies he understands more than he lets on, never quietly brood and pout when Sherlock does something to annoy or upset him, never make tea just the way Sherlock likes and force him to eat and sleep after a long and grueling case…

He can't bear it. The detective is horrified when it finally hits him just how dependent he's become on John, and it downright destroys him to think of the possibility that he'll once again have to stand on his own two feet. Problem is, Sherlock isn't sure he remembers how.

Without John to support him, Sherlock is bound to fall. It's only a matter of time, and he knows that he will never be ready for when that time finally arrives.

John's hand feels so lifeless in his own. This fact makes Sherlock grip it even tighter, as if willing his own life force into his flat mate in a last-ditch effort to wake him up. He's abandoned the chair in favour of kneeling on the floor, the cold linoleum a painful discomfort he barely notices because it is nothing compared to the immeasurable pain throbbing in his chest cavity. Sherlock Holmes has never begged for anything in his life, yet here he is on his knees, screaming silent pleas for John to just wake up _wake up_. _Wake_. _Up_.

That lifeless hand is now his lifeline, the only reason he's still even here. His grip remains firm in desperation. His other hand traces along the contours of John's face, slackened in sleep. Trembling fingers ghost over the blond stubble littering that gorgeous square jaw, brush against dry and chapped lips that had once been so smooth and inviting. His fingers eventually thread their way into fields of unkempt dishwater blond locks, twisting and knotting and searching for any sort of reaction. Any hint that John can feel his yearning touches, reaching out for him, to bring him back where he belongs. With him. With Sherlock.

No such thing comes, and Sherlock lets out a dry, gasping sob, muffled as he buries his face into the sterile bed sheets.

"John Hamish Watson. Don't you _dare_ fucking leave me."

.

Sherlock can't believe his eyes. And he can always trust his ocular sense. He's absolutely certain he hasn't touched anything even close to narcotics or hallucinogens. Any sort of reality-altering substance, really—though both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, even Mycroft, had difficulty believing these claims for the past few weeks. This isn't possible._ Shouldn't_ be possible. John is at the hospital, struggling for his life; Sherlock knows this for a fact, seeing as he'd been there himself only a few hours ago.

Things had taken a drastic turn for the worse that day, starting with when Sherlock had noticed a dangerous drop in John's blood pressure. In no time, a medical team had crowded around the comatose doctor in a frenzy to stabilize him, keep him alive. Sherlock had just hovered uselessly in a dark corner of the room—a dark, derelict corner of his mind palace—barely listening to the nurse telling him something about an infection in the bullet wound they hadn't been able to get rid of. The how or why was insignificant, didn't matter. All that mattered to Sherlock was John, and John was dying.

_John was dying._

And Sherlock couldn't do a _thing_ to stop it.

By some miracle, they had managed to stabilize John, eliminating the immediate danger and sense of urgency. Sherlock was on the verge of collapsing by that point. He hadn't even refused the shock blanket this time, though he did protest the nurses ushering him out of the hospital. Fervently so. His insistence that he was _totally fine, thank you very much_ hadn't deterred them in their attempts to send him home to get some rest. He'd eventually found himself in the back of Lestrade's cop car, being hauled off to 221b Baker street. Despite his declarations that sleep was for the weak and that Lestrade was overstepping—practically leaping above and beyond—his boundaries by unceremoniously tossing Sherlock on the sofa, he had fallen asleep merely minutes after he hit the cushions.

So, if it isn't mind-fucking drugs, it must be a dream. Because after all that has happened today, John Watson is most definitely not standing in the doorway to their flat, safe and unharmed. He's not watching Sherlock with a sad smile, an imploring and desperate look in his unusually dull blue eyes. He isn't saying his name, over and over in a tone of voice that carries such finality in its tenor.

"Sherlock."

_No, go away. You aren't real_. Sherlock waves listlessly at the illusion as if to shoo it into nothingness. He isn't sure if he voices his thoughts aloud, his mind still clouded with sleep.

"Sherlock, _please_. I don't have much time."

Sherlock forces himself to sit up with great difficulty, swollen and nearly immobile hands grasping at the back of the sofa for leverage. He blinks a few times before pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes and rubbing furiously. Once his eyelids slide open and his vision focuses, he still sees John standing there. The silence hangs heavily in the air, like the thick London fog looming just outside the sturdy walls of the flat. Sherlock stares at John—no, _the illusion_—long and hard until he pulls himself to stand. His movements are jerky and lethargic as he drags his feet across the floor, moving closer to the hallucinated figure.

It can't be John.

Yet the closer he gets, the more details Sherlock drinks in, his brain treading treacherously into sensory overload territory. This illusion…every detail is absolutely perfect. It definitely looks like John. Everything from the worry lines on his brow to his short but sturdy stature. Even the tiny specks of brown dusting the rich blue of his irises. It feels like John, Sherlock notes as he reaches out to touch his face. Skin roughened and weathered due to extensive exposure to sunlight and the brutality of war. Slightly warmer than normal body temperature; John is like a walking heater, warm and cuddly and radiant. It even smells like John—not the pale and bedridden John reeking of antiseptic, but the_ real_ John. John, who smells of fabric softener and jam and danger and excitement and pure manly musk. Who chastises him when he's rude and chases after him to crime scenes. Who makes tea in their hazardous kitchen and lets Sherlock keep body parts in the fridge. Who is always by his side and will never, _ever_ leave him.

_His_ John.

It has to be John.

Because only John would give him that kind, endearing smile that the illusion is showing him now. But the gloom, the melancholy in those upturned lips, those eyes…it's so prominent, it can't possibly be ignored.

"John…" Sherlock whispers, surprised his vocal cords are still functional, if only just.

John takes Sherlock's hand and holds it tight in both of his. Sherlock is stiff and scared, yet he finds a strange comfort in the feeling of calloused fingers on his cold skin.

"I can't stay long, but I had to see you," John says. "Before…"

Sherlock swallows the rock that has lodged itself in his throat, feeling it drop to the pit of his stomach like an anvil, teeming with dread and regret. "You're dying," he states, barely able to choke the words out. Dream or not, the reality of the situation hits him harder than a double-decker bus speeding down the street. Oh God, this is it. The last goodbye. _The end_.

"…Yes." John nods solemnly, locking eyes with Sherlock. There's fear there, but also…_acceptance_. No. No, there can't be. No, no, no, this is _unacceptable_. On all accounts. Because if John accepts it, then Sherlock has to accept it. And Sherlock bloody _refuses_ to accept it.

The repetition of that two-letter word filters from his brain to his mouth, his voice getting louder and louder with each utterance. "No. No, no, no. No, John! _No!_ You're giving up! You _can't_ give up!" He's practically yelling now, holding John's shoulders in a vice grip. He bows his head to hide the threat of tears. John _can't_ see him cry.

"I can't fight it, Sherlock." And for the first time since Sherlock has known him, John sounds terrified. _Defeated_. And that, in turn, shatters him. None of this can be real. John is brave and courageous. Never scared. Never afraid. Never beaten by _anything_.

"You have to! You…you_ have_ to…_John_…!"

"I'll be fine, Sherlock. You will be, too," John assures him.

_No no I will not be fine I will never be fine please John don't go I can't fuck no why you can't you just fucking can't!_

"No…" is all Sherlock manages to gasp out before he spirals into darkness, taking his hallucination with him.

.

Faintly, Sherlock hears a buzzing off in the distance. He's trapped in a void, an endless expanse of black. The buzzing. It's getting louder and louder, vibrating in his skull and jostling his brain about relentlessly. When he finally opens his eyes, he finds himself sprawled on the floor next to the door. He has absolutely no recollection of how he ended up there, or why he'd chosen the floor as an acceptable surface to sleep upon. All he knows is that his head is pounding and that annoying buzzing just needs to stop. _Now_.

When he finally puts two and two together, realizing exactly what the sound is, he's scrambling across the room to get to his mobile which has somehow ended up on the floor near the fireplace. His trembling hands fumble with the device for a few moments before he manages to press the answer button and hastily holds the phone up to his ear.

"Hello?" he croaks.

There's dead silence on the other end. A couple seconds pass by. Then, there's a sharp intake of breath sounding from the speaker. Mycroft's voice is the next thing that comes, grave and cold.

"John is dead."

The entire world stops, grinding to a screeching halt, propelling him forward with inertia. Sherlock's phone drops to the carpet with a thud, along with his carefully crafted composure.

.

There is nothing left. Absolutely _nothing_. His life has no meaning any more, no air, no light. John was his light, now extinguished forever, leaving him in eternal darkness. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft…even Molly had all tried to at least provide torchlight for him, to guide him out of the dark. But it's not the same. Never will be the same. Not without John.

He hasn't left the flat in two days—there's no reason to. He doesn't have anything to keep himself going anymore. He needs to vanish. He needs means for his own end.

Which is why it's there, sitting nonchalantly on the coffee table as if it has every right—every _privilege_—to be there. Sherlock swears he can hear it mocking him, tearing into him with its volatile mix of former comfort and new disdain. He's never felt more disgusted with himself. He feels filthy. Wretched. Used.

_Haha. You're so pathetic. So weak. Look at you. You can't do anything._

Reminding him of his failure, of his carelessness, of his complete lack of control. That he is no god, only a tragically flawed human being. The syringe, the substance he used to depend on for solace, for survival, now taunts him, tries to bully him into submission. It's sinking its claws into his conscience, flooding him with dirty and scandalous temptation. He refuses to rise to the bait.

_You need me._

_No._

_I won't leave you like he did._

_NO!_

_Take it. It's okay. You don't need to feel the pain anymore._

But the pain is Sherlock's only anchor, the only thing tethering him to this world. As much as it hurts—and God does it bloody_ hurt_—he _needs_ it. He craves it, because it's all that he has left.

He's played ding-dong-ditch on death's doorstep countless times, laughed danger right in the face more times than he can remember. Purposely risked his own life, and others, just for the thrill of the chase. The adrenaline, the satisfaction of outrunning the Grim Reaper and surviving another day. But this is different. Sherlock Holmes has never been afraid of death, but now he is. He's terrified of it. Doesn't want it to find him. Not yet, not now. This time, he wants to live. He wants to live _so badly_ he can't stand it.

He wants to live for John, because John can't anymore.

The syringe shatters against the wall and Sherlock supposes he should feel some sense of accomplishment. But all he feels is cold.

.

Calling hours. A time when everyone gathers together in grief, unites to comfort and console one another in a time of need. A time when everyone can observe the body of their deceased loved one, all spiffed up and stuffed like a doll in the casket. A time for final farewells before letting the coffin sink beneath the soil. Normally, Sherlock loves examining dead bodies. Gets excited by the mere notion of it.

John Watson's body is not a body he wants to examine under his magnifying glass. Under_ any_ magnifying glass. _Ever_.

Sherlock props himself against the back wall of the room in the funeral home, wishing that he could just melt into the plaster and disappear from existence. He's supposed to be sad now, isn't he? Grieving, mournful, depressed? Yet amidst all the expressions of _I'm sorry for your loss_ and _may he rest in peace_ and _John was a great man_, all he feels is rage. Bordering on loathing, barely held in containment. He can't stand it. Any of it. From his lonely spot along the wall, he watches as the guests offer their condolences to John's sister and his parents and he can't help but hate them. _He_ had been the one who lived with John, was friends with John, cared about John, _loved_ John. Why is he not standing in the procession with them? Why is no one shaking his hand and saying sorry to him? Why is he still being left out of everything, like the outcast he is? He'd lost more than they had.

_So much more_.

He'd lost _everything_.

He hates Harry. He hates John's parents. He hates every single person standing in the room, hates their tears and agony and remorse because they just _don't understand_. No one understands his feelings. Hell, he doesn't even understand his own feelings.

Most of all, he hates John. Or at least, he wants to hate him. Desperately wants to hate him for leaving him all alone in this mad, cruel world.

The gaping hole his fist leaves in the wall is nothing compared to the hole in his heart.

.

The funeral is today, scheduled at noon. Sherlock remains slumped in his chair, the same way he's been for the last several hours. His suit wrinkles, and the single chrysanthemum between his fingers loses a few of its petals into his lap. The small, ornate clock on the mantle strikes twelve and Sherlock closes his eyes as he sinks deeper into his chair. The quiet dings of the clock bell echo through the flat.

He can't bring himself to go.

The sky has chosen today, of all days, to let loose a torrential downpour. As if the heavens themselves are mourning the loss of such a wonderful, amazing, beautiful human being. That doesn't seem fair, though; if anything, heaven is _gaining_ a new angel. And those still on Earth are paying the price, suffering the absence of a loved one. Burdened with the ache of missing the dearly departed.

Sherlock can't stop the rain any more than he can stop the funeral, stop this painful reality from coming to full fruition. Stop the world from spinning on without John as if nothing had happened.

But he _can_ stop his tears. At least, that's what he keeps telling himself, even as the lapels of his suit jacket darken with the steady stream of salty liquid. The chrysanthemum falls into his lap as he cradles his head in his hands. And for the first time since this whole mess began, Sherlock allows himself to sob uncontrollably in the privacy of his home. The home that is _only his_ now. He's never hated himself so much in his entire life.

He's never felt so alone.

.

A cold, porcelain mask of indifference settles into place as he carefully watches the scene unfold from behind the barrier of glass. The fragile compound is the only thing keeping him from ripping the throat out of the man who had taken everything from him. Sherlock is certain he's never hated anyone more in his entire life. It's overwhelming, an odd and completely new sensation like ice burning in his veins. Like a chilling fire licking at his skin, leaving him scarred and immobile. He's startled out of his reverie when Lestrade sets a reassuring hand on his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze.

"He'll get what he deserves," the silver-haired man says in a small attempt at comfort. The gesture is appreciated, but nothing can quench Sherlock's thirst for vengeance, his desire to avenge John. The man may be behind bars now, facing life in prison. But Sherlock would love nothing more than to ensure that John's killer, this _monster_, would never again draw the breath of life.

And as much as he yearns for it, killing this man would not bring John back. Sherlock knows that. But he still can't quell the beast within, can't keep the hunger for revenge at bay. He lays every single ounce of blame on this damned criminal and tries to pretend that he himself isn't at fault for John's untimely death.

But this is one lie that Sherlock isn't able to tell convincingly.

.

The last thing Sherlock Holmes expects to find upon his return from Scotland Yard is Harriet Watson sitting in John's chair in the living room. He freezes instantly in the doorway, contemplating in all seriousness whether or not he should make a run for it. Surely she's here to murder him, or at least maim him a little. It's his fault that she lost her only sibling. He wouldn't blame her for any resentment she held for him—hell, he already resents himself enough, inundating himself in endless guilt and shame ever since the incident. Knowing that John had trusted him with his life, and he _failed so miserably_, and John paid the price for Sherlock's neglect.

But Harry just sets down the teacup she's holding and rises from the chair, turning to face Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson must have prepared her tea after showing her into the flat, the consulting detective surmises. "Hello, Mr. Holmes," she greets quietly. Sherlock is appalled to hear her sound so completely _sober_, especially at a time like this. "I hope I didn't come at a bad time?"

Sherlock gives a minute shake of his head. For all he's concerned, any time is a bad time. There will never be a good time ever again. But he's not about to tell her that; she's suffering enough with the loss of her little brother. He can't imagine what that must feel like, having only one sibling himself—mum as he is to admit, as with many things concerning his own brother, he doesn't even want to think about how he'd feel if he ever lost Mycroft to the jaws of death. He clears his throat. "No…it's quite all right. And please…just Sherlock," he replies tentatively. His feet remain glued to the floor, keeping him stuck in the doorway and still sporting his coat and scarf and gloves because he really doesn't care enough to remove them. He just looks at Harry, watches her, studying her face that bears such a _striking_ resemblance to John's and every single frayed thread of sorrow and grief he's holding onto is mirrored in her eyes and _oh God those eyes they're…just. _

_Like. _

_John's._

_I can't._

Sherlock finally averts his steely gaze, aiming his pain and anguish at the year-old burn spot on the carpet. He remembers when John had scolded him for it—how was he to know his experiment would backfire as it had?

"Right. Sherlock." Harry gives him a tight-lipped, apologetic smile that is nothing compared to the swell of sadness clouding her precious baby blues. "Your landlady is very nice," she says as if trying to dodge the reason she came by.

Sherlock, growing rather impatient and slightly panicked, begins trying to deduce her on the spot, searching for the real intention behind Harry's surprise visit. He needs to know as quickly as possible so they can wrap up their business and he can send her on her way because _those eyes_.

He refuses to fall apart at the seams in the presence of unfamiliar company.

"If you've come to collect John's things, I've left them all untouched in his bedroom upstairs." At least, everything that John left to his sister. John Watson is—_was_, Sherlock corrects himself as his wounded heart splinters into even smaller shards at the painful reminder—a practical man of limited material possessions. Never felt a need for too many things, really, and Sherlock admired that. He still does. John left his most treasured belongings to Sherlock.

His laptop, hard drive filled with unpublished recounts of all their adventures together, rests right on top of the desk in the sitting room.

His military-issue Browning L9A1, which Sherlock really shouldn't be trusted with handling considering his general carelessness with firearms, lies silent in Sherlock's bedside drawer.

His dog tags dangle from Sherlock's neck beneath his clothing, clinking with every movement and thumping against his chest as if John's heart were there instead of cold metal, beating in tandem with Sherlock's own.

All of his other personal effects, such as old photos and clothing, he left to Harry to do with as she saw fit. Sherlock doesn't let on that he's nicked one of John's jumpers and sleeps curled into it every night.

"Actually…that's not why I came by," Harry says slowly, the sudden intrusion of her voice reminding Sherlock that she's, in fact, still there. "I don't know if I can bring myself to go through his stuff. Not yet."

Sherlock nods in understanding. It's for that very same reason Sherlock hasn't gone through many of John's things himself. It would be…too much. "Why have you come, then?"

Harry takes a deep breath, as if preparing for a religious confessional. "I…I wanted to thank you, Sherlock."

At this, Sherlock starts, not even trying to erase the surprise written plainly all over his pale face. _Thank him?_ What had he done to deserve such niceties? He let her brother _die_, for God's sake! "I'm…sorry?" he asks with a wince, wanting to clarify that he'd heard correctly, and wasn't just imagining those words. Harry should be ripe with hatred, condemning him to a life of prolonged torture for the sin he'd committed, not _thanking_ him.

Tears, hot and unbidden, snake down her cheeks as Harry lets out a small sob. She angles her head downward, hand flying up in a futile attempt to cover her face and stop the tears from flowing. "You made my brother happy," she says, sniffling and trying her damnedest to keep herself composed enough to speak. "He…he came _alive_ when he met you, Sherlock, and he was just…I'd never seen my brother like that before, and it made me happy to know that he was happy. You saved his life, Sherlock."

Flabbergasted, Sherlock feels the sudden urge to scream. To yell. To cry and sob and thrash about in a tantrum because it just _isn't fair. _He didn't save John's life; he let him die. _Let. Him. Die_. If anything, _John_ was the one who saved _Sherlock_. In so many ways. And this is the way Sherlock repays him for all he's done. He doesn't deserve Harry's gratitude. Not at all. He deserves to rot in the depths of Hell for what he's done.

"…I believe you have it rather backwards," he says, finally, with practiced calm. "John…he was the one who saved _me_."

"Maybe you saved each other. I mean, John has never been so excited about anything as he was about your adventures. I read his blog, you know. Every word." Harry cracks a small smile through her tears. "Even the comments you left. You…you really cared about him."

Sherlock just stares, dumbfounded, waiting for his brain to catch up with both his emotions and Harriet's revelation. Had he really been that easy to see through, even via typed text on the internet? "I…had always thought our positive influence on each other was rather one-sided," he admits quietly.

"Maybe it worked both ways, then," Harry says, taking a deep breath to hold back further sobs. She wipes the last of her tears away, allowing herself a few moments to gather her wits before speaking again. "Either way, I just wanted to thank you." Still refusing to look up at him again, she grabs her coat from the back of John's chair and slips her arms through the sleeves. "I'll be back at a later time to collect John's things. Until then, take care of yourself."

"You too," Sherlock replies, more out of politeness than anything else.

Harry nods and makes to exit the flat, but she pauses for a long moment in the doorframe. Blue eyes glance up to meet Sherlock's orbs of grey and she offers a small, almost wistful smile. "He loved you, you know. My brother. More than anything."

She then turns and descends the stairs, leaving Sherlock standing alone in the sitting room. He lets out a bitter laugh in spite of himself, moving to John's chair and collapsing into the cushion. He curls into his coat, laughing and laughing until the laughter devolves into broken cries that he doesn't even bother to hold back.

.

The sun is bleak at best, trying its hardest to break through the infamous cloud coverage that London is known for. Whatever warmth it may provide goes mostly unnoticed, even by Sherlock, the most observant man anyone could ever hope to meet. He doesn't take note of much of anything, really, his focus on one thing and one thing only. His feet guide him without question down a winding path, knowing exactly where their master is headed. His polished dress shoes squeak a little as they traverse from concrete to wet grass. Walking past several headstones, he comes to a halt in front of one in particular, a good number of meters away from the cement path circling through the cemetery. He stands completely still before the unassuming grave marker, hands clenched in his pockets and an unreadable expression on his angular face.

A tiny ray of rare sunshine highlights the name on the light grey granite.

_John Hamish Watson._

Sherlock takes a moment to admire the stone slab, plain and unassuming but still possessing a simple kind of beauty. Much like the man whose corpse rests peacefully two meters below it. This is the first time Sherlock has visited John's grave—it took him an entire month to muster up the gumption to do it. Mrs. Hudson offered to accompany him, but he declined. He needed to do this by himself.

"Hello, John," is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. He manages to say this without tears. So far, so good. He has to ground himself before continuing, though, taking a deep breath and filling his lungs with much needed oxygen. Why is it so hard to breathe?

"I'm sorry it has taken me so long to come," he apologizes, hanging his head a bit in shame. "I am…terribly _bad_ with this kind of thing…"

His fingertips brush along something cold and metal inside his coat pocket. Leveling his gaze upon the headstone the same colour as his eyes, he feels his resolve solidifying within him, in his core. He has to get this out, no matter what. This guilt that has been eating away at him for going on three months now. These words need to be said, if Sherlock ever hopes to move on. If he ever hopes to receive John's forgiveness.

"John…I'm sorry. I wasn't able to protect you." Sherlock pauses for a moment. He's not going to cry—he's already promised himself that he wouldn't. His lips twitch almost imperceptibly. No, he can't stop now. "I just…wanted to say…wanted to_ tell_ you…"

Fuck, he can't do this. His airways are constricting, his tear ducts are betraying him. After all the time he'd spent steeling himself for this moment, his barriers are falling to shambles in seconds and he can't hold them together. The clouds move in, completely eclipsing that lonely beam of sunshine.

"John…I love you."

The salt burns his eyes, but he doesn't even try to wipe the tears away. He just lets them fall, rolling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin.

"…I miss you, John. I love you, and I miss you…_so much_…"

Sherlock blows a breath out through pursed lips as he takes a few steps closer to the gravestone. His fingers close around the metal object and he pulls it out of his pocket, setting it atop the granite with a small _clink_. It's John's key to the flat—_their_ flat. To Sherlock, it will always be _their_ flat. And this way, if John ever wants to come home, all he has to do is unlock the door.

Though…the key means so much more than that, fits into more than just the keyhole on the doorknob. The silver teeth fit seamlessly into Sherlock's heart, to Sherlock's soul. From the very first moment they met, John has always held the key to unlocking those hidden parts of Sherlock. And he would be the only one worthy enough of keeping it. _Forever_.

So Sherlock deems it a more appropriate item than flowers to leave at the grave.

He squeezes out a few more tears before backing away, resuming his former position before the headstone. For a long time, he just stands there and stares, as if waiting for something to happen. Waiting for John to pop out of the ground and fall into his arms. No such thing occurs, and Sherlock feels cold. So very cold.

A raindrop hits him square in the nose, catching him off-guard. Another pelts his cheek, and another attacks his ear lobe. Within seconds, the rain comes down in a deluge. The dirt thickens to mud beneath his shoes. The freezing water soaks through the thick wool of his coat. His dark curls flatten, weighed down with water, and paste to his skin.

It's time to go home.

Sherlock exhales slowly, watching his breath condense into a puffy white cloud in front of his face. Taking one last look at John's grave, he mutters a small, "Thank you," before turning on his heels and heading back to the beaten cement path.

.

I don't have much else to say after this, except thanks for reading. I hope you liked it.

Until next time,  
Chibi


End file.
